


You Know Who I Am

by Jolien



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Take x on How They Met
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-24
Updated: 2018-02-24
Packaged: 2019-03-23 10:28:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13785570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jolien/pseuds/Jolien
Summary: How things could have gone if they had gone a little bit different.





	You Know Who I Am

The air is motionless and so moist it clogs the throat. The flowers have been in the sun long enough to ooze sugar. In the distance, thunder rolls ominously, as if it knows what’s happening.

Sweat clings to Goodnight’s hands and arms, tickles his back and fills his boots. But his mouth is dry like desert sand. It’s an occasion for a whisky or three, but the only things in his pockets are dust and loose threads. He spent his last dime on food for the horse. He’ll need it to follow the trail of browned paper to the next town, in case he doesn’t manage to capture his quarry in this saloon.

The man on the picture has a face like many others: badly drawn and out of proportion. He could be anyone, if not for the scrawled name beneath the drawing and the horrendous sum in red. It has enough zeros to make Goodnight forget that he technically can’t collect on bounties any more. He’s no longer Sam’s deputy and he is no lawman himself. But in this case, the grieving family is willing to pay this and more for proof of death, and maybe Goodnight can finally _forget_. That’s worth a try.

He takes the rifle off his shoulder, fingers almost slipping on the barrel, and climbs the steps. There’s not even the slightest breeze to cool the afternoon.

This will be quick, he tells himself as he stares at the door. He doesn’t have to draw it out. He doesn’t even have to look the man in the eye. He can just shoot. He _can_. All that’s needed is a second to aim and a twitch of the finger. Easy, considering how twitchy he’s been lately.

**! BANG !**

Goodnight jumps a foot. He throws himself to the side and ducks for cover. His knuckles turn white on his rifle.

Smoke curls from the dark slit between door and porch, smelling like gunpowder. Inside, something crashes and splinters. It sounds dull, so probably wood. The sharper clink of shattering glass follows, more hollow but too light to be coins. Muddy brown drops form at the edge of the door and drip down between the floorboards.

Goodnight pales. _The good whisky!_

He picks himself up and thrusts open the door, stepping right into a puff of smoke. He blinks the stench out of his eyes and waves a hand in front of his face, even as something in his mouth expands to choke him. It’s just the smog, he reminds himself.

The inside of the bar looks like a miniature battlefield once things get ugly: shattered bottles, assorted pieces of furniture, half-eaten food everywhere. In the middle, men circling each other like hawks; no one daring to give an inch. It’s to be expected: the closer the opponent, the bloodier the fight.

Goodnight slides behind the grandfather clock that lost its glass in an earlier brawl and scans the crowd. His body feels like lead. But he only needs one good shot. In the melee, no one will notice.

There are half a dozen men in the room. Two of them are already down, including what looks to be the proprietor of the establishment, which would explain why there hasn’t been any loud complaining yet. Three of the others are circling a fourth with their heads ducked like vultures. They’re workers, judging by their muscles. Locals, judging by the poor taste in clothing, which includes green checkered shirts and violet neckerchiefs. At the same time, no less. One of them is not wearing any pants and his furry legs are dotted with crumbs. They take turns swinging reddened, hairy fists at the man between them. He’s slimmer, lighter, quick on his feet like he’s used to it. His dark hair is caked with dust and the butt of a cigarette hangs between his teeth. 

Goodnight fumbles for his rifle. No matter how quick this fellow thinks he is, no one’s quicker than a bullet. Goodnight built his career on that _smashing_ truth.

The man in the middle feints a punch at the Goliath in front of him, spins at the last moment and crushes his first into hairy-leg’s jaw. He howls, pressing both palms to his face, blood squirting between his fingers. His two friends are right there to take revenge, or at least try to. Their target darts out of range like a stickleback zipping between pebbles, fooling the hunter’s eye with its shimmery scales. This man’s tactic isn’t quite as elegant as that, but kicked chairs slow his attackers down just as effectively. They need an angry huff too long to dodge the flying furniture, and he bashes his elbow into one guy’s ear and hits the other over the head with a bottle.

Goodnight hurries to cock his rifle. There is no way he can take this one alive, no matter how much he prayed for it.

At the sound, the man whirls to face him and their eyes meet across the smoky saloon.

Goodnight freezes. Dust wisps past. Here and not here. He’s been there before, in between the mud and blood and excrement, with enemies and allies likewise too close to shoot. The world is shaking apart in the dull quiet after canon fire. Or maybe that’s him. A sniper in the melee, that’s like a cougar held down by wolves. 

A voice startles him back to Texas. “Hold it right there!”

In the cut out dark of the kitchen doorway, a girl appears. Her dress is almost as crimson as her lips. Her blonde hair, once done up in waves and knots, is in disarray – rubbed against a filthy pillow or wall, perhaps. In her trembling hands, she clutches a revolver. Her voice is thin like the soup that drips from the counter tops.

“That’s right. None of you move until the sheriff gets here. Hands up!”

The man in front of Goodnight turns around on the heel of his left foot. It brings his other hand closer to one of the unconscious men, who somehow managed not to get kicked off his chair. He has a pistol in his belt. The table blocks its view from the girl.

She shakes her gun. “Stop moving!”

He doesn’t. His hand is halfway down to the pistol.

Goodnight’s gaze flickers from the man to her, and he makes a decision. One by one, he unclenches his fingers. He aims his rifle at the man but speaks past him. “Lower the weapon, girl.”

The man casts a look over his shoulder and reaches faster.

A drop of sweat runs down the side of Goodnight’s face. He keeps his eyes on the girl. “Now, young lady.”

She shakes her head. “I can’t. I need these people.”

“I know,” Goodnight says.

“They took me in. This is my home.”

“I won’t let any harm come to them.”

The words weigh on his tongue. He has no right to promise that.

But she wavers. Her gaze darts to the other man, who stands frozen. Waiting.

“You’re scared. I know what that feels like. But if you try to shoot like that, you’ll hurt someone you don’t meant to hurt,” Goodnight says calmly, like talking to a child. “If you really want to help, go get the sheriff.”

Her eyes glitter. She sobs, once, drops the gun and runs.

Goodnight turns his attention to the man. He’s less surprised than he should be to find himself facing the muzzle of the pistol.

“You’re here to kill me.”

“You killed a man,” Goodnight points out. That’s what it says on the warrant. “And a few more since, I believe.”

The man shrugs. “Maybe he had it coming.”

If he was anything like the people Goodnight grew up with, he probably did. He remembers how it was, back on his father’s plantation. The hate in their slaves’ eyes, every time they thought no one was looking. To them, every white man was guilty.

The man cocks his head. “I know your name.”

Goodnight feels dumb. His fingers are frozen through like on a winter’s night in Gettysburg. “Yeah, who doesn’t.”

He lowers the rifle and the pressure on his chest eases. There’s nothing for him to do or drink here. He should leave.

“Wait,” the man says. “You saved my life.”

Goodnight scoffs. “I saved the girl.”

The man inclines his head, neither confirming nor denying. The corner of his mouth ticks up. All in all he looks kind of... pleased? He twirls the pistol and stuffs it into his pocket, grabs a bottle from the bar and fills one glass. “Drink with me.”

He pushes the whisky across the bar and Goodnight stares at the sloshing liquid. That’s the red tide he came for, to wash away the stench of his memories. He takes a step before he can stop himself. And then another, because he can’t kill this man anyway, and if he’s being treated to a drink before getting shanked, why not?

Goodnight grabs the glass. “Well, you know my name. And I know yours.”

He chucks it in one go.

The man’s eyes sparkle. He lifts the bottle in a toast – cougar’s grin curling his lips, smoke in his mouth. “I prefer to introduce myself when meeting someone new, cabrón. Call me Vasquez.”


End file.
